


Envy, v. [...] Jealous, adj.

by pudgy puk (deumion)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Character Study, Daddy Issues, Gen, Introspection, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:20:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/pseuds/pudgy%20puk
Summary: A brief meditation on types of wanting and similarities between noble and bastard.





	Envy, v. [...] Jealous, adj.

**Author's Note:**

> I consider this congruent with the events of “Makes Three” and “Et Tibi Patri” but it is unnecessary to read either of those to understand this piece.

To be ambitious is also, in its way, to be envious, and Aymeric had made his peace with both of those things years ago. With all motive stripped away, the shades of grey split to stark black and white, the ruthless truth was that Aymeric wanted things he didn’t have, in many cases things currently enjoyed by other men. Now, his desires were noble—to be the able protector of his home, to deliver it from misery to victory, and to see it prosper—or at the very least _natural_ , and that kept Aymeric able to sleep at night, and able to endure this evening, this somber excuse for a social gathering still but moons out from the fall of the Steel Vigil.

The crowd being thin (not a one from the House Haillenarte) and still in at least half-mourning, Aymeric gravitated to one possible acquaintance: Artoirel, viscount de Fortemps. Their similarities had been something they’d bonded over in the past, perhaps it could help brighten a muted, dull evening.

“Honored viscount,” Aymeric said as he approached the window Artoirel had decided to haunt (and a young, severe-faced elezen man, long hair loose, in dark finery and brooding before a winter storm? Fury, but Artoirel played the role of his station impeccably).

He accorded Aymeric only a brief glance before returning his gaze outside. “Knight-Captain de Borel.” His voice was no warmer than his bearing tonight. “My apologies on behalf of my father—some matter has delayed him, but he will arrive soon.”

So that explained the weather-watching, but not the bitter undertones in “some matter.” Either way, though, clearly Artoirel was in no mood for company—and Aymeric was about to excuse himself when Artoirel drew in a sharp breath, and tensed, and so quickly that only Aymeric could’ve seen. His curiosity getting the better of him, Aymeric leaned just enough to peer out the same window and see what Artoirel had seen: Two people walking along the paving-stones outside, only briefly discernible to him—one barely more than a silhouette, the other the Count Edmont de Fortemps, finally making his way to the alleged party, laughing and smiling.

His eyebrows raised, once again Aymeric looked to Artoirel, who remained frozen and tense, gaze still directed out the window even though now no one could be seen. “Your lord father,” he said, the prompt quite clear in his tone.

“And Haurchefant.”

Aha. That, then—that explained everything. “My father’s—” Artoirel stuttered to a stop, biting his lower lip, and Aymeric was only too sure that if he breathed out and finished the sentence, the word would have been “favorite.” And just like that, where before there had stood a perfect Ishgardian lordling, now there was a dragon of a man, hot with anger and curled defensively, as if around a golden hoard—as if his father’s love could be measured out like coins, as if Artoirel could hide it, guard it, and his jealousy protect it from his half-brother.

And in that moment, Aymeric had never felt more like and more unlike Artoirel. Of course, the desire to be loved by his father—that was only _natural_ , that was _right_ , that would make all of his endless climb after the Archbishop worth it, in the end. But the hate in Artoirel’s eyes, how he bit his lip until his jaws trembled… That there could be recognition there almost frightened him—that he had cause to envy and pity the trueborn and fellow bastard alike…

“Give him my regards,” Aymeric said, resisting the temptation to pat Artoirel’s shoulder, and instead sought warmer company, and wine to help him sleep.


End file.
